by Ann Swinfen
‘Poor lad,’ I said. ‘He must have trodden on something sharp. A stone or the splintered end of a broken branch. It was wild out there. Can you pass me my satchel, Harry?’
Rikki yelped once as I cleaned and salved his paw, but tolerated it. I bound it with a small bandage, though I knew it would soon come off, or be worried away. As I was finishing, Arthur came in to heat some bran mash on the brazier.
‘He’s fine, is Hector,’ he said. ‘I rubbed him dry and put on a blanket, for it’s turned cold as a virgin’s heart out there. He’s jumpy, mind.’
‘He didn’t care for the lightning,’ I said.
Harry grinned. ‘Nor didn’t we!’
‘It got so dark and I don’t know how long I was on the road,’ I said. ‘What time is it?’
‘I heard St Katherine Colmans chime six not long back,’ Harry said. ‘Mebbe half an hour ago. Are you off home now?’
I considered. I had dry clothes at home, but I had to walk there first, with no fire in my room until I had one lit and burning through. The players were dining at the Green Dragon tonight, out of concern for the inn’s lost trade, for which Master Burbage felt obscurely responsible. It was not far to the inn and they would have lit fires to chase away the cold and wet. I could dry out there, and eat a hot meal.
‘Nay,’ I said, ‘I’m for the Green Dragon and supper with the players.’
‘That were a strange business,’ Arthur said, ‘what happened to Master Wandesford. Do they know who done it?’
I shook my head. ‘Not yet. Though I am sure the coroner’s sergeants will solve the matter before long.’
I was not as confident as I sounded, but could not stay and speculate if I wanted to reach the inn for supper. Rikki seemed prepared to follow me, still limping but determined, so we set off through the last spatterings at the tail end of the storm.
The players were already at the Green Dragon when I arrived – looking a miserable spectacle, no doubt. I was hauled away to the fire, and Rikki with me. The innkeeper had a pot of spiced wine heating on the hearth and the first tankard was pressed into my cold hands. I cupped my fingers gratefully around its warmth and sipped the wine while it was still almost too hot to drink. Rikki must have felt as cold as I did, for he crawled so close to the fire I feared he would singe his fur. Both of us gave off clouds of steam.
While the innkeeper and his pot boys were carrying in our supper, an explanation was demanded of me – why had I arrived looking as though I had just been fished out of the Thames? When they learned I had ridden all the way back from Windsor in that storm, I was told I was both a fool and a hero – quite which I am not sure – and I was pressed by Master Burbage into the chair nearest the fire. I was heartily grateful for that meal, for I realised that I had eaten nothing all day, and had I returned to my lodgings I would have had nothing but a bit of cheese and some stale bread. And I think there might have been an egg. As it was, the Green Dragon provided braised beef cooked with onions, carrots, cabbage and garlic, excellent for keeping out the cold, with fresh rolls to mop up the juices, and honeyed frumenty to follow, studded with almonds and raisins.
By the time we were sitting over the last of the spiced wine I could feel that my back was nearly dry, but I still seemed to be sitting on a heap of wet washing, my padded breeches having acted like a sponge. After I had sneezed several times, I decided I must head back to my lodgings before I developed more than a mild cold.
‘Aye,’ Will said, ‘those of us living over the river had best be moving. With the river so low that the wherries could hardly move, they have been keeping the Bridge gates open later than usual, but the rain may have filled the river and we shall need to take a wherry.’
‘The heavens fairly opened,’ Guy said, ‘but I doubt the river will have recovered yet. It will take a few days, with the water flowing down from upstream, to make up for all the water we have lost these last weeks.’
Guy had known London all his life and was probably right, but once I had made a move, Simon and Will were ready to leave with me. To spare Rikki’s injured paw, I thought I would carry him, but he was a big dog, and heavy, so the other two took it in turns with me. Rikki seemed puzzled at first, but then settled into his privileged position like a young prince.
Just past the entrance to Gracechurch Street we nearly collided with two men who came running out of an alleyway on our left. Both had hoods pulled over their heads and dodged away from us, heading back up toward Bishopsgate Street. Instinctively my hand went to my sword and Will half drew his dagger, though Simon, who was carrying Rikki, could have done nothing to protect himself.
‘Footpads!’ Will cried, whirling round.
‘Leave them!’ I warned. ‘They are not after us, we are too many for them.’
It was then we heard a groan from the direction of the alleyway.
‘Someone is hurt,’ Simon said.
We all three turned and took a few cautious steps into the alley. It could be a trap, to lure us away from the street – where there were lanterns hung before most doors – into a dark corner where we could be attacked. Hardly had we ventured more than a couple of yards when Will stumbled against something on the ground.
‘There’s a man here, hurt,’ he said.
Simon set Rikki on the ground and fumbled in his purse for a strike-a-light, but when we moved aside so that light from the street shone far enough in for us to make out the figure at our feet, Will said, ‘It’s Stoker!’
I knelt down on the muddy ground. ‘He wasn’t at supper, was he?’
‘Nay,’ Simon said. ‘Come to think of it, I don’t think he was. He’s usually skulking somewhere in the background, but he wasn’t there tonight. How badly is he hurt?’
After that first moan, the man had made no further sound. I ran my hand over his chest and it came away sticky.
‘Blood,’ I said. ‘He’s been stabbed. Stoker? Can you hear me?’
I saw his eyes turn toward me. There was a gasp of breath. Then the eyes were still, glinting with reflected light from the street. I pressed my fingers to the pulse in his neck. Then I stood up.
‘He is dead,’ I said.
Chapter Nine
The three of us never reached home that night. After our gruesome discovery, Simon and I stayed with Stoker’s body, while Will went in search of a constable. He seemed to take a very long time about it, and I grew more and more aware of my sodden clothes. Both Simon and I were nervous, for it was far from pleasant, standing guard over a body at the mouth of a dark alleyway which led into a huddle of disreputable buildings, furtively crowded together as if they were watching us. The heavy rain had driven everyone indoors, so that even Gracechurch Street, a busy thoroughfare by day, was deserted.
‘I wonder,’ said Simon, ‘should we seek help from one of the respectable houses in Gracechurch Street? I am starting to think that Will may have met those same two cutthroats we saw running away. They might have been lurking, waiting for him.’
It was true that Will had headed in the same direction, hoping to find a parish constable around Leadenhall.
I shook my head. ‘Who would open a door to us at this time of night? We might be thieves or cutthroats ourselves. Would you open your door? Even if they did, they’d as like draw a sword or a musket on us as offer the hand of friendship. We’d best wait. We’ve heard no sound of an attack on Will, and it is quiet enough tonight.’
Indeed, the usual noise of London was missing. Now and then a dog barked in the distance, and there was still the gurgle of water running off roofs and down the kennels of the street, but otherwise it was uncannily quiet. But why was Will taking so long?
It was more than an hour by the chiming of church clocks before he returned, dragging with him two very reluctant constables, each carrying a candle lantern.
‘I was afraid I might not find you again,’ he said grimly. ‘I have been all round the parish until I found these two snug in an ale house, instead of keeping the peace as they should.�
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‘No blame to us, maister,’ one of them said, going on the attack, a big hulking fellow, who might be a blacksmith when he was not serving his term as a parish constable. ‘Silent as the grave, the City’s been since the storm. No need for us to freeze off our arses and wear out good shoe leather, when there’s no one abroad but you.’ He glared round at us. ‘Who’s to say you a’nt the killers?’
‘Any man with two brains in his pan would know that!’ I said angrily, for I was very cold and very tired. ‘If we were the killers, would we come hunting for the two laziest constables in London? Or stayed freezing here, where those two killers might pay another visit? Use your head, man! Take charge of the body and let us be on the way to our beds.’
‘Not so fast.’ The other man was less impressive physically, but his narrow weasel face displayed more intelligence.
‘Your mate here says he knows the man.’
‘We all do,’ Simon said, in a conciliatory tone. ‘His name is John Stoker and he is employed doing rough jobs with Lord Strange’s Men.’
‘Players, eh?’ The man said, narrowing his eyes. ‘Rogues, the lot of you.’
‘Watch your tongue!’ Will said.
‘I am a physician,’ I said, deciding we would be arrested ourselves if we were not careful. ‘Dr Alvarez. I have ascertained that the man is dead. It is difficult to judge in the dark, but he appears to have been stabbed in the chest and perished quickly, for two hooded men ran up the street just as we arrived. Master Stoker made only incoherent noises before he died. Do you not think you should move his body to somewhere more seemly?’
‘St Peter’s Cornhill is the nearest church,’ Simon said.
‘Aye,’ weasel face conceded. ‘I’ll go knock up the churchwarden. I know where he lives.’ He turned to the other man. ‘You stay here and keep a watch.’ He gave us a meaningful look before striding away up Gracechurch Street.
I leaned back against the wall of the nearest house, for I felt I could not continue to stand upright without support.
‘Someone is awake.’ Simon nodded toward a house on the opposite side of the street, where light had appeared around the edge of the shutters. As we watched, the shutters were thrown open and we could see shadowy forms moving against the candle light. A man – I think it was – leaned out and peered across at us.
‘It’s a pity they were not watching earlier,’ Will said. ‘They might have got a better look at those men than we did.’
There was another long wait before the constable returned with the churchwarden and we all made our way to St Peter’s, the two constables carrying Stoker’s body between them. The churchwarden unlocked the church door, then led us into a side chapel.
‘You could put it here, I suppose,’ he said dubiously, pointing to the dusty floor.
‘That is not suitable,’ I said firmly. I had never liked Stoker, but I would not allow him to be treated like some filthy piece of rubbish found in the gutter. ‘Put him there.’ I pointed to a flat tomb which stood at the back of the chapel.
‘But that is the tomb of a benefactor, from two centuries back,’ the churchwarden objected.
‘Then he is in no position to complain,’ I said.
Reluctantly he agreed, and Stoker was laid out on the stone slab.
‘Bring those lanterns nearer,’ I said, leaning over to examine Stoker more closely, now that there was more light to see by.
There was a rip in the front of his doublet, a little to the left of centre. A narrow wound to the flesh below the torn fabric. Blood around the wound, but not a great deal. Death had been swift.
‘A narrow dagger,’ I said. ‘Not a sword. And the killer knew his business. He went straight for the heart.’
The churchwarden shuddered. ‘To think that such evil walks the streets, and barely a stone’s throw from this holy place.’
None of us answered. If the man was unaware of the evil that walked all the streets of London, he must be living in the land of Cockaigne.
Just then, from over our heads, the church clock struck three.
‘We’ll be about our duties,’ weasel face said. ‘This must be reported, but it can wait till morning.’
With that, the two men took themselves off. ‘Back to the ale house, no doubt,’ Will said. ‘But what shall we do? We shall never be able to cross the Bridge now.’
The churchwarden looked uncomfortable. As clearly as if he had spoken, I could see that he was thinking that in pure Christian charity, he should offer us a roof over our heads for the rest of the night, but he did not like the look of us.
‘We had best find an inn that will take us in,’ Simon said. ‘If any will open their doors to us.’
‘Not the Green Dragon,’ I said. ‘They have had troubles enough.’
‘The Cross Keys,’ Will said. ‘We are known there. Even if the cook will give us a chair by the kitchen fire it will serve.’
‘Aye.’ Simon and I both agreed.
‘Master churchwarden,’ I said (for I still did not know his name), ‘might you lend us a lantern? The moon and stars are still blotted out with storm clouds, and we need to find our way through the dark streets.’
He was only too glad to find us a lantern and be rid of us. As we walked away, Will now carrying Rikki, who had fallen asleep in the church porch, we could hear him locking the church door.
In the morning, stiff and crumpled from our few hours on benches in the kitchen of the Cross Keys, we made our way to the Theatre, anxious to inform Master Burbage of the night’s events before some official, alerted by the parish constables, arrived with a garbled account of our involvement in Stoker’s death.
As usual, Master Burbage was already at work early in his office. I found myself a seat on a stool in the corner and left it to Simon and Will to tell him what had happened after we had left the others the previous evening. They were his own men, and also colleagues, after a fashion, of the dead man. When called upon, I described what I could of the fatal stabbing, from my brief view of it.
‘This becomes more and more disturbing,’ Master Burbage said. ‘Two of our men murdered and one of Henslowe’s attacked and robbed. Has someone started a war on the players’ companies? The City authorities have never liked us.’
None of us answered.
‘And all to do with the copying of play books,’ Will said at last. ‘Wandesford and Holles both copyists. Stoker sought to be a copyist. Kit Marlowe’s play stolen.’
‘Nay,’ said Master Burbage, ‘surely not. You fear for your plays, Will, but they are safe enough. I take greater care than Philip Henslowe.’
‘Will may have good reason,’ I said. ‘Stoker took a mighty interest in the texts of the plays. All the while I have been at work copying, Stoker has been hanging about, wanting to read the lines out to me, or peering over my shoulder, until I told him to go away.’ I gave a somewhat forced laugh. ‘I hope I may not be the next victim.’
‘You would recognise belladonna and not drink it by mistake,’ Simon said. ‘And you are a more than adequate swordsman.’
‘I thank you for that,’ I said, a little stung at his ‘more than adequate’. ‘There are, however, other methods.’
‘You know,’ Will said thoughtfully, ‘I have often wondered what Stoker was doing here. He claimed to have been with Henslowe’s company. Has anyone ever asked Master Henslowe if that is true? And he was given very menial work with us. Why did he stay? And why was he so anxious to become a copyist, when it was evident that his writing was poor?’
‘He could read fluently,’ I said. ‘He kept muttering the lines in my ear, driving me to distraction.’
Will nodded. ‘I noticed that he was always mouthing our speeches too, when we were rehearsing or during a performance. Was he memorising the parts?’
‘I wondered that myself,’ I said. ‘I thought he hoped to impress Master Burbage and persuade him to employ him as an actor.’
Burbage shook his head. ‘Never. I believe you remember my compar
ison? As animated as a bed post?’
‘And so was his reading,’ I said.
‘I wonder whether those constables will report this death to the coroner,’ Master Burbage said. ‘Or whether it falls to me, as the employer both of the victim and of those who found him. The coroner may begin to think it very curious, that murder dogs our steps.’
‘I wonder–’ Simon said.
‘Aye?’ Master Burbage looked at him. ‘What do you wonder?’
‘When Will looked in Master Wandesford’s room after he was killed, it seemed that someone had searched it. I wonder whether anyone has searched Stoker’s room.’
Will jumped to his feet. ‘You have the right of it, Simon. We should go and look at once, before those bumbling constables go ferreting about and turn all to chaos.’
Master Burbage frowned. ‘The coroner may not like it.’
‘Damn the coroner!’ Will said. ‘How is he to know?’ He turned to Simon and me. ‘Will you come?’
‘I will,’ Simon said eagerly.
I was more doubtful. We might be breaking some law. But in the end, curiosity won me over. ‘May I leave Rikki with you, Master Burbage?’
‘Aye, leave him here. You do not want him to leave bloody paw prints all over the man’s room.’
‘Where did he lodge?’ Will asked.
Burbage pulled a paper toward him. ‘I have it here. Cockspur Lane. Sign of the blue dove. Not Cockspur Street. Cockspur Lane.’
‘I know Cockspur Lane,’ Simon said. ‘Off Wormwood Street. We will find it easily enough.’
In the event, it was not as easy as he expected. The lane was narrow and dirty, the signs indicating the names of the buildings mostly so covered with filth they could hardly be made out, or else they were missing altogether. Eventually we found what we took to be the blue dove – the sign fallen down and propped against the base of the house wall. The creature it portrayed was a sort of bluish grey and looked more like a Barbary parrot than a dove, but we could find no other sign which resembled any kind of bird.
